


i've had to wait forever (but better late than never)

by saltyypercy



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Character Death, F/M, PJO, although i thought about it, but i tried to make it up to you in the last bit <3, he doesn't go apeshit, percabeth, the first 2/3 of this is pretty rough ngl, this isn't a dark!percy fic but the undertones are definitely there lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29906388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyypercy/pseuds/saltyypercy
Summary: sometimes it takes a twist of fate to realize that it's already too late
Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 87





	i've had to wait forever (but better late than never)

The gods are silent as they walk into the throne room, glancing warily at Percy, Grover, and Thalia standing over the broken body of Luke Castellan.

Percy wonders if they already know. But then Apollo gives him a look, and he watches Athena’s face and sees emotion rather than her usual steely calm. 

He doesn’t have to wonder anymore. 

They keep glancing at him like he’s a bomb about to go off, and he feels a strange, twisted satisfaction knowing that they’re scared of  _ him _ . 

_ Not that powerful, eh? Could have fooled me.  _

He hears the voice of Hephaestus in his head, the conversation they had a year ago playing again and again.

_ You’re the son of the Earthshaker, lad. You don’t know your own strength. _

And Percy thinks they should be scared of him.

But his whole body aches and his ears are ringing and his head is on fire, and he’s glad he can’t bring himself to do anything except slump against the ground and stare at his blood-splattered shoes until his eyes lose focus. He’s not sure what he would do, but he can feel his control slipping, and he knows whatever he did wouldn’t end well. For him or them, he doesn’t know.

He loses track of how long he sits there, gods and demigods bustling about to repair the throne room, and he vaguely remembers promising that he would let his mom know if he was okay—though  _ okay  _ is subjective and he feels anything but, and he can’t bring his voice to work.

Nobody approaches him, but he can feel them looking at him. His hands are trembling and he wants to scream, wants to beg the fates to uncut the chord—to cut his instead—but the fates are cruel; he knows there’s no changing it no matter how hoarse his voice gets.

A loud voice booms and the throne room shakes, but Percy doesn’t move. He glances up and sees the other demigods kneeling, and for a second he thinks he should, too, but the thought is quickly replaced with a louder one that says,  _ what are they going to do about it? _

He remains sitting.

Zeus looks at him, and Percy can tell he wants to say something—demand that Percy shows respect to the council—but he clenches his jaw and looks the other way, continuing on with whatever pointless speech he was giving.

Percy looks back at his shoes, his ears still ringing and his mind swirling with images of blonde hair in his lap and the feeling of her blood soaking through his pant leg.

He feels someone nudge him a few minutes later, and he feels like he’s moving through molasses as he turns to look. Thalia’s hand is on his shoulder—though he’s not sure if it was to get his attention or hold herself upright—and he can tell she’s trying hard not to cry as she motions to the center of the room with her head.

It takes him a moment to figure out what she’s trying to tell him, but when he does he has to restrain himself from laughing. They want to  _ reward _ him, and somehow that makes it worse. 

The gods are looking at him, and he closes his eyes and reminds himself to breathe as he stands. He doesn’t acknowledge anybody as he makes his way to the center of the room; he doesn’t bow or kneel when Zeus looks at him expectantly. 

Percy meets his eyes, and he figures Zeus must recognize the challenge in them because he clears his throat and continues. 

He tries to listen when Poseidon starts speaking, but he’s on the verge of breaking down and knows that if he hears anyone  _ congratulate _ him for what he did, he’ll shatter.

When Zeus opens his mouth to speak again, Percy hears one sentence, and his world screeches to a halt.

“Percy Jackson, you will have one gift from the gods.”

His head shoots up, and he already knows what he’s going to ask, but then Zeus speaks again.

“If you wish it, you shall be made a god,”

Anger flashes through Percy’s body and he hears a broken laugh escape him. He swallows the lump in his throat and grits out a, “No,” before turning and walking out of the throne room.    
  


He can feel everyone’s eyes on him as the door slams shut behind him.

* * *

Percy can’t describe the feeling of knowing his best friend is lying dead in the building behind him. 

He hasn’t cried—not since blackjack swooped down and lifted her lifeless body out of his lap—but he knows that if he goes in, he won’t be able to stop himself.

He’s not sure how they got her back to Camp Half-Blood, and he doesn’t really know how he got there, but he sits outside and watches as too-few campers enter the building to say goodbye. He wants to stand, wants to speak, wants to do  _ something _ , but the guilt makes him feel like he’s back under the weight of the sky, and he can’t move.

He thinks holding the sky for eternity would have been easier than this.

Thalia and Grover come out of the building and walk towards him, their eyes rimmed in red. They sit on either side of him, but neither of them speaks. 

Eventually, Grover looks at him, his lip quivering. “Everyone else has said goodbye, Perce.” 

A few more tears slip from Grover’s eyes, and Percy forces himself to look away. 

He hears Thalia say something from his other side. “You should go in; you can’t ignore it forever.”

He looks at her, choking out a, “Can’t,” and he can feel the tears pooling in his eyes and blurring his vision, but he doesn’t let them fall. 

“It’s my fault,” his voice cracks.

“It’s  _ not _ your fault, Percy. It’s Ethan’s. You are  _ not _ responsible for this, okay?”

He wants to argue with her. He wants to yell until his voice is gone and tell her that it is his fault—that he should have  _ done _ something—but he knows arguing with Thalia won’t do any good. They’re both too broken, and nothing good ever comes from them fighting, anyway. They’re their fathers’ children, after all.

Grover wraps his arms around him, and Percy tries to lift his arms and hug back, but he’s still shaking and his head is still pounding and he  _ can’t _ .

And Grover knows. He knows that Percy is broken, that his entire world came crashing down around him. He knows that Percy is precariously placed on the edge and that one more pity look could have the power to send him tumbling.

Grover stands, wiping a tear from his cheek, and goes to stand beside Thalia. 

The two of them turn and head towards the Big House, leaving Percy alone with his own devices.

And he’s  _ angry _ .

He’s angry at Luke and angry at Ethan. Angry at the gods and the Titans and the Fates, and he wonders how fate could be cruel enough to take the life of a girl who’s done nothing but fight for herself and her friends for the past nine years of her life. And above all, he’s angry at Annabeth. 

He lets the anger flow through him. He feels it building and cresting and weakening his control, and then he’s standing, his hands and jaw clenching, and he’s walking towards the building.

He’s pushing through the door and his vision is blurry, but he sees a mess of golden hair illuminated by the harsh lighting of the infirmary and beelines towards it.

He’s close enough now to see that her skin is too white—and his breath catches and his lungs are burning and he  _ can’t breathe _ —and he thinks he finally understands how it feels to drown.

The grey shroud folded on the edge of her bed makes it all too real, and Percy finally lets a tear fall down his face. 

He stumbles towards the bed and he can’t think straight, but suddenly the blood on his pant leg is taunting him and the voices in his head are screaming at him. It’s too much and not enough, and he tries not to think of how it will never be enough because she’s not here and it’s too late.

And then he’s falling. He’s falling onto the edge of the bed and taking shallow, shuddering breaths, and more tears are slipping from his eyes, but Percy knows that no amount of water will ever be able to heal him of this wound.

He exhales sharply and tilts his head towards the ceiling. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

It takes a moment, but he steadies his breathing enough to choke words out through gritted teeth, and it’s the first full sentence he’s said since the bridge.

“You’re a shit gift giver, Beth.” 

He risks looking at her, half expecting her to sit up and smile at him, saying something about how he’s not great at giving gifts, either.

But she doesn’t, and she won’t, and she never will.

He manages to force another sentence out, but the humor is mirthless. “By far the worst birthday gift I’ve ever gotten,”

The breath leaves his body in a broken laugh, and he puts his head in his hands. He’s still shaking, but he can no longer tell if it’s only him or if the entire world is trembling with the force of his grief.

Percy is no stranger to pain. He’s held the weight of the sky upon his shoulders; he’s been burned alive, bathed in the Styx, been touched by the scythe of Kronos, but none of it compares to the pain he feels now.

What hurts the most is that Annabeth will never know.

He remembers talking to Aphrodite, and he wants to go back in time and tell himself to stop being afraid before he loses his chance.

_ Oh, dear. Still in denial? _

He wishes he knew how little time he had left.

_ It’s been ages since we’ve had a good tragic love story _ .

He wonders if Aphrodite knew this would happen—if she knew that, only a year and a half later, he would be sitting at the death bed of the girl he’s in love with.

Before he can stop himself, he looks at her again. A sob leaves his body, and the realization that he’ll never get to see her smile at him again, that he’ll never again get to see the way her eyes light up or the way a blush creeps up her cheeks when he teases her, is too much. 

He’ll never get to be the shoulder she comes to when she needs to cry. He’ll never get to hold her hand and press his lips to her cheek as they walk down the beach, and it hurts to think of all the things he lost because he was too blind to see that everything he’s ever wanted, and everything he didn’t know he needed, had always been right in front of him.

He squeezes his eyes shut when he remembers that all she’s ever wanted was to build something permanent, only for it to never happen.   
  


A part of him thinks that this is some sort of elaborate joke the universe decided to pull on him. It was always Annabeth living in fear of  _ him _ dying today; it wasn’t supposed to be her.

But he’s very much alive, and she’s the one who died.

His hand makes its way to her neck and he presses two fingers to where her pulse should be. He knows that beating he feels isn’t her—it’s is his own blood rushing through his fingers—but if he closes his eyes and calms his breathing, he can almost imagine that she’s still here and breathing and smiling, and that he still has his best friend. 

He opens his eyes, however, and sees her pale skin beneath his fingers; he may have been the one who lived, but he would die a thousand times in a thousand different ways if it meant he would get to see her look at him one more time. 

Any strength he has left leaves his body, and he collapses onto her, his head on her shoulder as sobs wrack his body and his tears soak her shirt.

“It wasn’t your knife, Annabeth.” 

And then he’s back on that bridge, a scream cutting through the air, making his blood freeze and his head snap back. He barely has time to catch her before she hits the ground. In a second, he realizes that the knife Ethan is holding was meant for him. He loses any control he had over what he does next, but then the bridge is clear of everyone and he’s running, running, running. He’s running back towards her, lifting her up, and pulling her into his lap. He hears himself screaming, calling for Will or any other Apollo camper to help him, but there’s so much blood, and it’s warm and sticky on his leg, and he knows that there isn’t enough time.

_ “You’re gonna be okay; it’s gonna be okay, Beth. Just hang in there.” _

He picks her up and starts making his way off the bridge, trying not to focus on the blood dripping from her chest or the way her eyelids keep fluttering shut before snapping back open.

She puts a hand on his chest and whispers a weak,  _ “Stop,” _ and he’s crying and slumping against a building as her hand grips his shirt and blood dribbles out of her mouth, and he’s pulling her as close to him as he can because he can’t lose her.

The more he thinks about it, the worse he feels. He wipes his face and sits up, looking at the body of his best friend.

“It was my knife,” his voice cracks. “It was  _ mine _ , Beth. Not yours.”

She doesn’t answer, but he can picture the sad smile she would give him if she were still here, and it’s worse because he realizes that she knew what she was doing. He’s not sure how, or why, but she managed to throw herself in front of the knife that was meant to be a killing blow for  _ him _ .

He studies her for a moment, committing the familiar line of her jaw and the shape of her nose to memory. Her eyelashes are long enough that they brush against her cheeks, and he hates how he notices that she looks far more peaceful in death than he remembers her ever looking in life.

It’s too much, and another wave of grief crashes over him. He wraps his arms around her, mumbling apologies she’ll never hear.

He’s not sure how long he stays like that, crying and holding the body of a dead girl, but when he finally lets go of her, it’s only because he has no more tears left to cry.

His lips are chapped and his mouth is dry, and he feels as though his soul has been ripped from his body.

Percy swallows hard, grasping her hand and trying to ignore how cold it feels in his own.

“I know you’ll never hear it, and I’ll never forgive myself for not telling you sooner, but you mean  _ everything _ to me, Annabeth. You always will.”

He leans in, pressing his lips to her forehead.

“I need you to know that I love you. I love you so much, and I’m so sorry I never told you. I pushed you away, and I would give anything to go back and spend the summer with you.”

He purses his lips and glances around the rest of the infirmary, his eyes coming back to settle on the grey shroud.

He can’t stop the choking sound that escapes him at the thought of saying goodbye—at the thought of all the precious time he wasted.

“I’m so sorry, Beth.” 

The words begin slurring together as he mutters them over and over again, and he doesn’t stop until his voice is gone and he’s falling asleep, his head placed right over where the sound of her heart should be.

* * *

Percy’s head is throbbing and cloudy when he wakes up to morning sunlight streaming through the window. 

He lies there for a moment, drinking in the warmth the sun provides. He sees the grey shroud and suddenly remembers where he is.

The day is far too beautiful to say goodbye.

He can’t bring himself to move, though—not until he hears a deep sigh and feels something stirring below him, a hand tugging on his hair.

Percy shoots up, his eyes wide and his hand immediately reaching for Riptide. He must have finally gone crazy because what he sees is impossible.

A pair of grey eyes are staring at him as she moves to sit up.

He stumbles backward, a hand coming up to rub at his eyes. She’s still looking at him though, an eyebrow raised, and his brain is swimming in circles as it tries to wrap itself around the situation.

“Are you okay?” she asks, and he makes a sound like he’s been punched as he takes another step back. 

He shakes his head. “You’re—I’ve lost it. I’ve gone crazy,” 

She laughs at him and it steals the breath right out of his lungs. She looks much too real and much too beautiful to be the same girl he held in his arms as he cried himself to sleep.

“Percy, what are you talking about?”

His mouth is hanging open and he’s sure he looks ridiculous, but she’s smiling and her eyes are bright and full of life, and he doesn’t know what to do.

“You—you’re dead, Annabeth.”

Her eyebrows scrunch together and she makes a face at him. “Okay, maybe you  _ have _ lost it.”

He shakes his head and glances down, and the blood is still on his jeans and on his shirt, and he knows he didn’t dream it.

“No, no. I didn’t—I,” he stops and takes a breath. “I  _ held  _ you—I was  _ holding you _ , Annabeth. I was holding you and you—you’re  _ dead _ .”

He’s tripping over his words, but he doesn’t know what to think. She was dying, and he cried and screamed for help that never came, and the blood soaked his skin and his clothes. There’s no way she should be here right now.

She looks like she’s about to say something, but then Will Solace walks through the door with tears running down his face. He makes his way towards them and glances up, dropping his clipboard.

“Oh my gods.” Will’s eyes are bugging out of his head as he looks at Annabeth.

Her head whips between the two of them. “You’re not joking?” She swallows hard. “I was—I was  _ dead? _ ”

Will nods his head, stepping back. “I, uh, I should go talk to Chiron.”

He leaves, and once again Percy and Annabeth are alone.

“Annabeth?” Percy asks hesitantly. “Are you—do you feel okay?”

She gives a shaky nod. “I feel fine, it’s just, I don’t remember  _ dying _ . I don’t remember anything past getting stabbed, really.”

He’s still staring at her, and he doesn’t know what kind of sick game the universe is playing, but he  _ does _ know that if he doesn’t take advantage of it, he’ll regret it for the rest of his life.

Annabeth opens her mouth to speak, but Percy cuts her off.

“I love you.”

Her mouth snaps shut and she takes a sharp breath, but he moves a step forward and continues.

“I know I pushed you away this summer, and I know you didn’t deserve that. I don’t understand what’s happening right now, but I need you to know that I love you, and I’m sorry for not telling you sooner.”

She holds his gaze. “You love me?”

He gives her a sad smile. “Yeah.”

She reaches a hand out to him. 

He doesn’t hesitate to take it, and when she gives it a tug he lets himself be pulled onto the bed beside her.

Annabeth wraps her arms around him, pressing her nose against his neck, and Percy thinks he would be happy to stay like this forever. He wraps his own arms around her, and, for the first time since he heard her scream on the bridge, his head is clear and the tension leaves his body.

He feels her lips brush along his neck, and he smiles and pulls her tighter, and he knows that no matter what happens next, he’s never letting her go.

His hand moves to her face, cupping her cheek and guiding her to look at him. He looks over her, and he can’t help but grin as he notices that her skin is warm and full of color and life, and her eyes are bright. The smile he longed to see is right there, and it’s directed at him; it warms him way more than the sun ever could.

Slowly, he leans in and presses his lips against hers. He feels her hand move to his hair, and it’s everything he ever wanted and everything he knows he needs for the rest of his life.

They pull apart and his lungs are burning again, but this time he smiles, because he knows that this is a burn he would give anything to feel.

And, he can’t help but notice that he was right. Today was far too beautiful to say goodbye, and the sun seems to shine brighter now than it ever had before. 

It might have been too beautiful to say goodbye, but it was perfect for a hello.

**Author's Note:**

> big thank you to Mari (@chironshorseass on tumblr) for putting up with me while I wrote this yesterday, as well as beta reading <3


End file.
